Cake
by Emilamoo
Summary: Making cake has never been so much fun or tasted so good.


**Okay, so I know that despite my username, it has been **_**ages **_**since I've written a Jisbon fic! I'm really sorry about that! I've just been so super busy- you guys have no idea. But I figured that you all deserved it, so I decided to whip up a nice fluff shot. Warning: Some parts are better- way better- than others! Sorry if it's kind of sucky here and there… I tried.**

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Cakes

A bake sale? Seriously? What, are we back in high school now or something? Whose damn "genius" idea was this anyways? It most certainly wasn't mine. Oh, right, it was Rigsby's idea. Figures. That man is like a dog constantly awaiting its next meal. Does he ever stop thinking about food? I'm pretty sure he doesn't. And of course Hightower thought it was a wonderful idea. She's been acting nicer to me lately, but I know that she still secretly has it out for me. That's why she assigned me the role of the homemade, from scratch cake maker instead of a much simpler task like making cookies or something. Everyone knows how to make those. Come on, gimme a break here. Why'd Cho get the easiest job?

This is all Jane's fault. If he hadn't mocked that suspect, the suspect never would have left that ancient, fragile China set out on that rickety, super wobbly table. And if he hadn't left the set out there, then when Jane bumped into the table why trying to avoid said suspect, the set would not have fallen and crashed into a million tiny shards.

Turns out our suspect wasn't guilty, and that China set was worth a good $2,500. Okay, if that suspect really cared about his stupid dishware, he wouldn't have set it on a crappy piece of furniture, even if he _was _provoked, now would he? No one in their right mind would. But, no, he did, and he complained to Hightower, demanding we pay back the funds. Now our unit has to come up with that kind of money, which none of us have very much of. Together we racked up around $1,500, but we're still around a thousand short. We had to brainstorm fundraising ideas, and the bake sale was the first one proposed. Hightower- being the lazy woman she is- agreed, of course.

My oven hasn't even been touched in ages. The last time I actually cooked something on it was… one and a half, two?... years ago. Well, actually, Jane cooked something on it back when we worked together to catch a real sicko who framed me for murdering a child molester I had arrested years ago. And he was just boiling water for tea. So, actually, I can't remember the last time I cooked on it. Hmm. I hope I still know how to use it.

Haha. Kidding. Kind of.

The point is, now I'm stuck baking ten- that's right, count 'em, _ten- _cakes for this stupid bake sale. I can't believe Hightower approved of this. Who ever thought of a crime unit having a bake sale? It's so childish. We're adults for crying out loud! I'd rather… I don't know… stand outside a store and ask for donations. At least we'd still have a little bit of our dignity left. But _no, _we have to advertise the fact that we're dead broke and desperate for money by selling a bunch of food to CBI members.

Gah, I'm so done for.

I've been at the grocery store for a good ten minutes now, a cake recipe that I printed off the Internet in my hand. There's nothing but some flour, sugar, and eggs in my cart when I spy a familiar golden color out of the corner of my eye. Oh God, please tell me that isn't Jane. I risk a quick glance. Crap, it is. I begin to pray that he- by some miracle- won't see me.

"Ah, Lisbon, fancy running into you here."

I bite back a groan and force a tense smile to my face. "Hello, Jane." Without a word, he joins my side and begins walking with me, scanning my small inventory. I start to feel slightly uneasy. "May I help you with something?"

He grins his signature smile at me. It used to annoy me, but now I kind of like it. "No, you're helping me already by simply giving me company."

I pull off a can of sprinkles, glance at it, and put it back on the shelf before moving on. "Seriously, what are you doing here? I'm kind of busy here, thanks to you," I say pointedly.

He shrugs. "Meh, you need this."

"Oh?" I ask sarcastically, faking being genuine. "And how do you figure that, exactly?"

"Easy. This opportunity will give you some down time to relax and have fun."

"Then what are you doing here?" I ask, unable to resist and holding back a smile at his look.

"Why, Lisbon, that wounds me greatly. But to answer your question, I'm here to help you."

I snort. "I don't need your help."

He stops the cart, and I cast him an irritated look. "Yes you do. Look at your cart."

I do and raise an eyebrow. "What about it? I have stuff in here for a cake. I followed the recipe."

"You have ingredients for _a _cake. Not for _ten _cakes."

I realize he's correct. "Crap," I mutter under my breath.

"No need to get upset. I'm here to assist you. And don't tell me you still don't need help because I know you will. You haven't used your oven in years; I can tell."

"Didn't Hightower assign you to anything? You are what caused this, after all."

He waves his arm in a dismissive manner. "I convinced her to let me help you. She figured you'd need it."

I sigh, too tired to argue the matter any further. "Fine. Whatever. Just be helpful for once, and don't screw anything up."

He feigns a look of insult. "Me? Never."

* * *

Jane helps me bring in the groceries. "Just set them on the counter," I instruct him.

"Yes ma'am," he replies, saluting me with his empty hand and a goofy, cheeky grin on his face.

I smile, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

We take off our jackets and wash our hands, and I pull my hair up into a sloppy ponytail. I dig around in my cupboards for the equipment we'll need, and then we get started. I start him off mixing the wet ingredients (eggs, water, etc). I don't trust him with the dry ones. Lord knows what would happen if I did. He probably doesn't even know the difference between baking powder and baking soda.

Nothing but idle small chat passes between us until I notice him pouring in a weird, brown liquid.

"What's that?" I ask him, approaching where he stood.

He looks like a cat caught with a canary in between its teeth. "Oh, just some vanilla."

"Vanilla? The recipe doesn't call for that."

"No, but it'll taste much better; trust me."

I've heard that one before. "since when are you the cake expert? Come on, give me the vanilla and juts follow the directions for once."

He shakes his head and holds the bottle out of my reach. "Nah-uh; I know what's best."

I growl a little. "Jane, give it back to me." I jump upward and knock into him. The vanilla sloshes out of the container and spills into the bowl. It lies there, continuing to pour in more and more. "Grab it!" I bark.

He grabs for it frantically and holds it up. There's only about half a bottle left. He grins sheepishly. "Oops. Guess this one will just be extra yummy."

Freaking moron.

I groan inwardly. This is going to be one long afternoon.

* * *

Three and a half agonizingly slow and painful hours later, there are six cakes cooling on the racks and racks and two more cakes in the oven. I'm stirring the 9th cake's better, and Jane's fiddling with the ingredients for the last one. My arm's just starting to ache when Jane speaks up.

"I'm bored."

"Okay, you can stir for a while," I suggest.

"I don't wanna," he whines.

I sigh, frustrated. "Then don't complain." Before I know it, a mini-shower of flour rains upon me. My eyes flare, and I look at Jane. His hands are covered in white powder. "Did you just throw flour at me?"

"Uh, no?"

I grin inwardly, a plan forming in my head. I take an egg and slide up until I'm just inches from him, my body almost pressed up against his, ignoring the butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. "Good. 'Cuz if you did, I would've done this."

I hit the egg gently against his forehead, and the goop trickled down his nose, dropped down a little bit of his neck, and plopped down onto the floor. Instead of getting angry, he simply wiped his face, grinned impishly, and leaned down to whisper in my ear, his warm breath tickling my ear and causing a little ripple of a shiver run through me.

"This means war."

His hand grabs the nearest thing- which just happens to be one of our cakes- and lunges for me, smushing a handful of the spongy substance in my face wedding-style. Shrieking- wait, I'm shrieking now? Since when do I do that? What the hell is wrong with me?- I stuck my hand into the sugary batter before flinging it at him. Some of it splatters onto his vest and shoes.

"Oh, you're asking for it," he warns me, grinning.

More cakes fly through the air as we continue our little battle. I'm pretty sure the timer chimes, but we ignore it. My hands rap around the half- empty sugar bag, and I see Jane pick up the heavy flour bag. I dash away, laughing uncharacteristically.

Gosh, it's been too long since I've really laughed at all.

Before I know it, the bag is over my head, and pounds of flour are filling my clothes, covering me from head to toe. I cough and gasp in disbelief, shaking my head vigorously to get all of the flour out of my hair.

"Oh, you're so dead!"

I dump my bag of sugar onto his head, and a quick look of astonishment crosses his features before he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the usual, adorable- wait, why's that there?- way they do.

"I do admit," he tells me, pointing, "that you _are_ good!"

Jane brushes some of the sugar crystals out of his hair, distracting me, before he grabs the last egg and reaches for me. I attempt to scurry out of the way, but he's too quick for me. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close. I try to wiggle away, but he holds tight. My breath quickens and my pulse beats faster with his face so close to mine. He seems to forget what he's doing as well, and his cerulean eyes darken with haze. I can feel heat radiating from his body, and I grow all too aware of his arms encircling me.

In one of those sappy romantic comedy movies, Jane would kiss me right now, I would fall into oblivion, and we would go upstairs to get it on.

But life isn't a movie, so he doesn't, much to my disappointment. Instead, he holds the egg and rests its cool surface on my hot forehead.

"Surrender?" he whispers, almost seductively.

His face is so close to mine that I almost do. But I have more self control than that. I'm Teresa _freaking _Lisbon, for Pete's sake.

"Never," I hiss through gritted teeth.

"Fine. I enjoy a challenge."

He digs his nail into the egg's fragile shell, and it splits slightly. A single drop of egg white falls- as if in slow motion- and lands right onto my bottom lip. My eyes flash up to his. The look in them scares the crap out of me. Completely forgetting his task, the egg drops out of Jane's hand and splatters onto the floor. His face draws nearer and nearer, his eyes searching mine and giving me the opportunity to step away and end this if I really want to. But I don't.

And _then _that's when he kisses me.

His lips are slow and steady against mine, and _damn, _he's a good kisser! I don't completely respond, mainly because my brain's a pile of mush and I'm trying to get it to work. I end up deciding that I don't really need to think right now; all I need to do is _act _because it feels so good, and to be honest, I don't really want to stop. As I pull his shoulders, bringing him closer to me, he wraps both his arms tighter around me. He tastes like the sugar I had just thrown on him. I can only imagine what I taste like. Probably like dry flour and raw egg.

Lovely.

Then his kisses get deeper, longer, and open-mouthed. My lungs burn because I forgot how to breathe, but I don't care just as long as we keep kissing. Our eyes are closed, enhancing the experience. Man, Jane was right. When you lose your sight, your other senses really _are _heightened.

We break off briefly, panting. Our eye open and we just look at each other. Before I know what's happening next, my back collides almost painfully with the wall, his body pressed completely into mine and his mouth hot and heavy. My hands find their way up to fist themselves in those curly locks I've so been dying to touch.

His lips maneuver to my neck, finally giving me an opportunity to breathe. This is crazy. We haven't even been on a date yet unless you count the one time he took me out to dinner in Mashburn's car. I _never_ sleep with anyone until I know we're serious. Oh, who am I kidding? I've wanted this, wanted _him, _for a long time now.

Our lips collide again, and I can't compress the moan that escapes from deep back in my throat. Jane's hands pull at the hem of my shirt before slowly roaming up to touch the bare skin that lies underneath. I'm just beginning to unbutton his vest when I smell something.

I tear my lips away. "Wha-what's that-that smell?" I ask between my labored breaths.

"Who cares?" he responds huskily, connecting our mouths together yet another time.

I want so badly to just get lost in him, but the smell is distinct now.

"Mmm, the cakes!" I tell him, using every once of my willpower to push him away. I rush towards the kitchen. "Oh no, no, no, no, no." I pull on an oven mitt and throw down the oven door. Billows of smoke pour out and into my face, and I cough. I pull out the pan to reveal two extremely hard cakes that are burnt to a crisp. My mood immediately goes sour. _"Damn it!" _I curse angrily, throwing the worthless pieces of crap onto the counter. "All that work for absolutely nothing! This is all your fault, you know!"

He takes a step towards me, grabbing my elbow gently. "Come on, let's talk outside where there's fresh air."

"No way, I refuse to take orders from you," I tell him hotly, feeling slightly guilty that I'm taking my wrath of frustration out on him.

He tugs on my arm. "You don't really mean that. Come on."

I follow him outside, my resistance fading quickly. He takes a deep breath. "You're not really angry at me; you're just confused about what just happened."

"No," say defensively. He looks at me, looks into my eyes that contradict my words, and I sigh. Curse my "honest eyes," as Bosco called them. "Okay, yes. I just can't believe that happened. It shouldn't have happened. But it did." He looks slightly hurt, so I quickly add, "I liked it, tough. A lot more than I should have." I ponder whether or not to plunge ahead. Ah, what the heck. I've already laid it all on the line, who cares if he doesn't reciprocate my feelings and never speaks to me again? "I like you, Ja- er, Patrick. I mean _really _like you. A lot. I can't help but wonder what if the cakes hadn't burned. What if… what if we had gone all the way? I've never done that with someone who I haven't taken the time to go on numerous dates with and really got to known."

He shakes his head. "We wouldn't have done that." I glance sharply at him. What the hell is that supposed to mean? One minute he's all over me, and the next he finds me repulsive? He notices my hurt look, so he explains. "Neither of us is ready for that yet. We kissed because we're attracted to and have feelings for each other. To be honest, I'm confused, and kind of frightened. I haven't felt like this since… you know. Forgive me; I'm kind of new to all of this again."

I'm not quite sure how to respond to that, exactly, so I just nod. "That's okay."

He looks at the ground, almost shyly, before grinning. "I don't mind if we make out again, though."

I roll my eyes and slap his chest playfully, but I can't resist leaning into give him a soft kiss on his lips. After a bit, I pull away. "What are we going to do about the cakes?" I wonder anxiously.

"Oh, there's an easy and simple solution for that. I have two words for you: local bakery."

* * *

Two days later, we're all totaling up our proceeds from the sale. It went surprisingly well. All of the food- cakes, pastries, cookies, cream puffs, éclairs, tarts, and pies- were sold successfully. I guess cops really work up and appetite on duty and appreciate baked goods. They're definitely willing to pay slightly expensive prices for them.

"How much did we make?" I ask Cho.

He finishes counting the wad of bills in his hand. "1,163 dollars."

"Yes!" Van Pelt cheers, high-fiving Rigsby.

"I'd say we deserve this, then," Jane says, pulling out another cake from the bakery that I hadn't known he'd bought.

"Ooh! Cake! Thanks, man!" Rigsby cries giddily.

Jane cuts the cake into slices and hands them out. He holds up his slice. "To us."

"To us," we all chorus in an echo.

The others turn around, and Jane sneaks me a quick peck on the cheek. My cheeks flush tomato red, and to distract myself, I begin to eat my cake, willing my cheeks to return to their original color and for no one to notice.

I decide that the bakery's cake tastes way better than what our cakes would have tasted like, anyway.

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**Ta da! So how was it? Did you guys like it? Was it a worthy returning story?**

**Review and I'll give you a piece of the bakery cake. It'll have "Jisbon" written on it with gel icing in your favorite color and a frosting heart. :)**


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